


Let me lay down beside you

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A little bit of domestic fluff thrown in, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Established Relationship, Grantaire-centric, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Permets-tu? | Do You Permit It?, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In a past life R had been an artist.Or, the one where Grantaire has dreams about being a nineteenth-century revolutionary.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40
Collections: Anonymous





	Let me lay down beside you

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always been interested in reincarnation fic, but I don’t really have the creative stamina for multi-chartered stories; so here’s this one-shot that says some of the things I would want to include in a hypothetical reincarnation fic.
> 
> The title comes from Annie’s Song by John Denver, which gave me the idea to write this. It’s very e/R, I think. 
> 
> One more thing (sorry!): there is reference to Grantaire having a tab at the Musain, and also to his sobriety—I’m imagining that R still goes to the Musain for meetings with Les Amis but orders non-alcoholic things while he’s there.

That morning began slowly, like most mornings. Grantaire brewed coffee—black, no sugar—and watched the sun rise gradually over the apartment building across the street from his own, until the sky was more pale blue than papaya, and he had finished off the last bitter dregs from his mug. 

In a past life R had been an artist. In this one, though, he works in “something STEM-y” (Jehan’s words), which keeps the lights on and pays Grantaire’s tab at the Musain but doesn’t do much for him other than that. Sometimes Grantaire muses about how his life would have gone if he had majored in something less joylessly practical, something that would have annoyed his parents, like art or philosophy. 

Maybe that more creative version of him would not routinely wake up at pre-dawn hours for no good reason. Or maybe all versions of Grantaire would be cursed with some form of insomnia. 

On that particular morning, Grantaire was still tired after the coffee. If Enj was awake, there might be a wry _I told you so_ about the inadvisability of building up such a strong caffeine tolerance. (Grantaire would never say _at least it’s not another kind of drink,_ because that’s a subject that’s still raw for both of them.)

Unfortunately, Enj was not awake, so Grantaire had been left alone with his thoughts and his empty coffee mug and the sunrise, which was not his, though Grantaire had seen it enough times that he almost felt like it belonged to him or he belonged to it. 

Grantaire had gotten even less sleep than usual that night, and his mind kept going back to the fragmented last minutes of the nightmare du jour. 

The heavy smoke-scent and the smoke-fog. Also mind-fog, a kind of drunk-haziness. The sound of rifles firing. The bang of a door. Rapid footsteps. Shouting. Everything creating more echoes than usual because the rooms were empty—somehow Grantaire knew without knowing that most of the furniture had been tossed outdoors. Pounding outside and in his head and in the heart racing in his chest. Everything ticking ( _ready, aim)_ closer to some unknown climactic moment. 

Then Enjolras—radiant, defiant, beloved—with his torn crimson coat (R was pathetically grateful that was the only thing crimson) and the stubborn tilt of his chin, willing and more than that ready to die for his ideals, damn him, bless him—

_Permets-tu?—_

Enjolras’ eyes softening at the same time as the rest of his body language goes firm, resolved—

Enj’s hand holding R’s tightly and then loosely and then not at all—terrified bliss followed by oblivion—

And then Grantaire had bolted awake into a reality where his shirt was damp with sweat instead of blood. And he’d turned to make sure—for his sanity—that his husband was still there sleeping at his side, completely healthy except for that awful snore that was so loud Grantaire swore it must be the result of some kind of obnoxious respiratory condition. But for once the snore was less an irritant than a reassuring reminder that Enjolras was fine. 

Completely fine. 

And so was Grantaire, theoretically, though he had a hunch that people who were completely fine usual slept more than three or four hours a night. And did not have dreams that were so violent, so vivid, so seemingly and impossibly real. (Before he’d had the coffee, Grantaire could almost taste the alcohol from the dream in his mouth, though he’d been sober for over a year.)

Grantaire sighed over his mug. “I guess I should go back to bed, huh,” he said to himself. 

He shouldn’t’ve tried to sleep immediately after having coffee, probably, but he also felt so exhausted that he would be useless if he stayed awake, so Grantaire chose the route that would make Enj less upset with him. 

When Grantaire slid back under the covers, it drew a disgruntled noise from Enjolras. Grantaire suspected he was still mostly asleep. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire said, low enough not to wake Enjolras any more than he already had. 

In a past life R had been an artist. In this one, he is only an artist in the way that some people in love become artists. He’s still in that early smitten phase where even Enjolras’ snoring somehow seems adorable and worthy of love poetry. It’s disgusting. 

Enjolras shifted a bit in bed—the soft light filtered through the room’s flimsy white curtains made his hair look more like gold than usual, shining and liquid across his pillowcase—and Grantaire knew that he loved Enjolras. Not that this was a revelation. He laid on his side for one long moment just looking at Enj. It was almost the same as the way that he would look at a painting in a museum—except not at all like that, because this was something intimate, personal, only-for-Grantaire. A kind of private sunrise. 

Grantaire had tender feelings about the stern lines on Enjolras’ forehead, which made Grantaire think that even Enj’s dreams involved impassioned arguments. Grantaire wondered what this morning’s argument was about. Maybe Dream Grantaire had insulted Rosseau. _Quelle horreur!_

Enjolras’ brow furrowed. He opened his eyes just a bit—they were still heavy with sleep—and fixed them on Grantaire. When he spoke, the syllables ran together more than they would if he was awake enough to enunciate clearly. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Like what,” Grantaire said, because he knew it would bother Enjolras. 

Enjolras huffed—success—and reached an arm around Grantaire’s waist. His head migrated to Grantaire’s shoulder. “It’s too early for this,” Enjolras mumbled. “Let’s sleep some more.”

It came out sounding like _lessleepzmrr._

Grantaire laughed. And yawned. And said, around the yawn, “Can’t argue with that.”


End file.
